


The Ballerina

by bulletandsophia



Series: Endless [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Immortality, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-02
Updated: 2017-04-02
Packaged: 2018-10-13 21:39:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10522431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bulletandsophia/pseuds/bulletandsophia
Summary: Set in the lifetime prior The Bench.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Series compiled under Endless. I just love this trope so much I can't help but write this next one. To fully grasp this world of Jon and Sansa, I suggest to go through Part 1. :)
> 
> Enjoy!

The leaves have started to unfold from their branches.

Some already are a proud dark green, some still in between the shades of yellow green and olive, small and still about to unruffle, but in abundance that their lushness is overwhelming—and Sansa, still contentedly lying on her bed, could see from her bedroom window how the leaves dance with the morning sunlight. The sky is also starting to color from its pale grey to some hints of pink and yellow. Slightly, just when the leaves and the branches sway to the right, she could see the neighboring brick buildings and their wrought iron fences and staircases. The street below is also still quiet and she knows that if she listens closely, she could maybe even hear a bird chirping—truly a rare treat for someone living in the city.

But the soon chaos later in the day, and most especially during the night, cannot disperse mornings like this when Sansa feels a certain kind of euphoria in the knowledge that perhaps, she’s the first to wake and the rest of the world still sleeps.

It’s a tad even more special when the morning does not compel her to hurry for any errands or ballet practice; like today, where time feels nonexistent and when the morning weather is just _right_ —not too cold nor too hot—just enough for her to snuggle the blanket without the discomfort.

Sansa could not deny though, as she turns her head from the window and back to the bed, that this morning in particular is all the more her favorite simply because there is an arm wrapped around her waist and it is currently trying to pull her closer as if they are not intertwined at all.

She chuckles as she lets the arm do so, turning so she could face its owner.

Jon Snow is a sleeper, she realizes. She studies him, this figure who is so deep in his slumber he still must be dreaming. A stray curl falls down on his cheek and Sansa softly entangles her finger and tucks it away, revealing more of his handsome features which she still quite can’t get enough of.

She has not seen him for a week because of the ballet company’s tour and they will only have this weekend too before she has to go on another long-week leg of performances out of town.

He made it all worth it last night though, Sansa reminds herself (and blushing at the thought). She was not even ten steps away from the touring bus when he pulls her to him and almost dragged her to the next block, all serious and brooding, and without a single word spoken.

But when they reached the alleyway, Jon Snow let all his thoughts known not through his words but with another certain kind of language only his lips devouring hers could utter. Sansa was drowning on it.

 _“I missed you.”_ , he whispered. She was still on a trance that he laughs at her silence, gently nudging her nose with his.

 _“You cannot just kiss a girl on an alleyway, Jon.”, s_ he teased. _“What would the people say?”_

_“Not as bad as what your mother would.”_

She playfully elbowed him but the rest of yesterday remained a blur the moment they got to her apartment and Jon more than just showed her how much he missed her.

He made her hear it, feel it, and bask in the raw and glorious ecstasy of him holding her hand, face buried on her neck, as they both reached the pure bliss that left them panting on her bed.

 _“I missed you,”_ he repeated as he lifted himself up and looked at her. _“I missed you, I missed you."_

He said it so again just when she felt her eyes succumb to lethargy.

He’s not much of a talker, her Jon Snow. That’s why Sansa treasures the moments he lets his guard down. Last night was an addition to the still small but hopefully, growing instances Jon fully allows her in his head space, in his mindset.

Some of her friends from the company think him odd—too quiet and moody, as if he is carrying the burdens of the earth on his shoulders. Sansa can’t help but think of the same when they first met, but as soon as they start to spend time together, when he visited her backstage with some blue roses and a lopsided smile, when he took her to the empty square one night to spend a freezing hour in the gazebo just to look at a northern star, when he took her to the patisserie for some lemon cakes, or when he spent an entire afternoon with her choosing the right material for a dress she was trying to make—she realizes that Jon Snow might look like he is carrying the weight of the world but when he looks at her, it makes her feel like she _is_ his world.

It does not make sense sometimes, Sansa admits. This unexplained pull she has towards him and his undeniable goodness to her, the way he just gives and gives and gives—all without asking for anything in return.

“What did I do to deserve you?” she silently asks now. Jon does not stir despite her hand running softly against his cheek. “Why do you love me so?”

She was the first who said those words though.

It was after one of her performances and his third consecutive visit at the theater that week. And with the fresh blue roses placed on her vanity table, _again_ , Sansa cannot take it anymore. So, when he finally reached her dressing room as soon as the show ended, she just said it, not even waiting for the door to close.

_I love you._

The look on his face betrayed the shock she feared but the deep exhale he made as he strode towards her and grabbed her by the waist and kissed her senseless let her know that perhaps, he loves her too, if not even more.  

Then he said it the first time when they were at a museum a few months after.

He has always been in love with history and while Sansa was not, she appreciates any kind of artistry her eyes lay upon. They were in front of a large painting. A castle from some ancient period with snow falling it made the entire thing almost white. There was a lone bird that flew in the sky and Jon was staring at it in wonder.

She joined him, trying to decipher what he was trying to make of the painting when just out of the blue, he took her hand, nudged her lightly, and simply whispered as if it was the most natural thing in the world for him to do.

_I love you._

Sansa was disheartened when she returned to the museum a couple of weeks later just to be informed that the painting was moved back to its home in the north.

Despite their exchanged admissions for each other, despite her body easily responding to his every action, despite hearing his words albeit few but are still loving and sincere, Jon remains to be a mystery she tries to unravel every single day. And in contrast, like a light to his peculiar darkness, she remains to feel as if she is the miracle that brought him to life. For reasons unknown, especially on days he thinks she does not notice (but she does) and he gazes at her with such longing, Sansa feels that the few feet of distance between them is already making him ache; that perhaps, what he most wanted in the world is just to be by her side.

So, she can only imagine the toll the ballet tour is taking on him.

He is not possessive but Jon is guarded and careful as if she is glass, as if she will disappear in any moment. To understand this silent passion, she once tried to ask him about his life before her and of his family. But she only received a shrug, a word spoken so neutral he might have forgotten he had one.

 _Gone_ , was all that he said. They did not speak of it since.

Sansa sighs, tugging the blanket higher. This time Jon moves, pulling her closer to him again and resting his head on hers.

“Are you awake?” she whispers.

He grunts and Sansa laughs at that.

“It’s morning.” she continues.

He doesn’t respond.

“I want to make the most of this weekend.” Sansa confesses, now looking up at Jon’s sleeping figure. “You know I have to leave again come next week.”

He doesn’t respond soon enough but when her eyes start to feel bleary again with sleep, she hears him faintly say,

“I know.”

“I don’t want to go.” she adds now, realizing the slight dread of their parting. “I just want this weekend to last and last and last.”

She looks up and sees Jon finally awake, mindlessly staring at the open window, thoughts so far away.

Sansa stares back on the skin on his neck, seeing some of the small scars she has yet to know the story, and that certain tug is back on her chest because another week without Jon is far too long.

“It’s too much to ask, I guess, to have an eternity with you on this bed.” she tries to joke. “But sometimes I feel that that in itself is not even enough when it comes to you.”

She feels him kiss the top of her head and she snuggles closer, closing her eyes and allowing herself that small victory of feeling his warm skin against her—a memory she will keep with her for the rest of her tour.

“I just want time to stop right in this moment.” Sansa adds. “With your arms around me during sunrise, all warm and welcoming… when I feel your breath on my skin and I smell your woodsy cologne…”

She feels his chest vibrate with laughter.

Sansa looks up again, with delight in her eyes, with softness she reserves only for him. He gazes back with her favorite lopsided smile.

Faintly she asks, “How wonderful would that be, Jon Snow? To be stuck in time with me?”

She almost feels his heart break in that instant and the curious frown he makes also strike her heart to break just a little. She wants to cry for some reason, seeing him suffer an unknown pain he never wants to share with her, quietly enduring whatever it is on his own. But before she can even comprehend the throbbing on her chest, he rests his forehead on hers and whispers ever so lightly,

“Then it is a dream come true, Sansa, to have a life with you that sees no end.”

Sansa realizes that she may not be his first, nor possibly his last love, but for what it is worth, with the way he holds on to her, with the way his lips ardently consumes hers, with her leg hitching up to his waist, with his hand encouraging her to do so, with the sunlight trespassing the moment, with their breaths heavy and yet fast, with sweet words whispered in between, with Jon muttering her name like a prayer, with her clinging unto him so she can share whatever pain—Sansa knows that this moment is hers.

Hers and hers alone.

It might not mean much to the now waking city, but to her, it is a moment forever etched in the continuum; a moment looped and wired into her being that maybe even in another lifetime, she will remember it, remember him—if such a thing is even real.

_But no matter._

The world may forget, but Sansa knows, deep in the corners of her heart, that she won’t.

She will and never could forget Jon Snow.

* * *

 


End file.
